Idiot Moments

By Mark Sherman

I am approaching a birthday and birthdays always seem like a time to assess my life. Actually, for many years now they have seemed like a time to shriek with horror over the prospect of mortality, but I'll settle for the assessment.

Today, I've decided to look back at what one could call idiot moments. There have been so many over the years that it will be hard to pick just a few. But here are a couple that come to mind.

I am not known for my bravery but I did something at the age of 11 which showed bravery or, to put it more accurately, incredible stupidity.

I was the skinniest boy in my seventh-grade homeroom. I had complained about this to my dad who assured me that I was not. But one day in our gender-segregated hygiene class, the teacher measured the heights of weights of all the boys in the class and announced them out loud.

Loving math, I wrote them all down and divided each boy's weight by his height. I discovered that my ratio was the lowest. I was right. Plus I was not very tall. I was, in a two-word phrase, a skinny shrimp.

But I was a boy and boys challenge other boys.

A popular pastime in the schoolyard after lunch was "Indian wrestling" (probably today called Native American wrestling). Two boys stood facing each other with their right feet side by side; they then grasped each other's right hand. Another boy said "Go," and each participant would try to dislodge the other from his position.

I challenged Robert, one of the biggest boys in the class.

He protested. "No, Mark," he said. "It'll be ridiculous."

But I was a boy. I had to prove myself.

So we assumed the position, surrounded by other boys. We took each other's right hand and someone said, "Go!"

The next thing I knew I was flying through the air and coming down head first to the ground. Amazingly - and maybe because I was so low to the ground - I don't think I lost consciousness. But my head hurt terribly all afternoon and the next day my neck was so stiff I couldn't go to school.

But I had proved myself.

I had proved myself an idiot.

Another incident occurred when I was 11 or 12 and my brother was about 10, and our parents had left us home alone for a couple of hours one afternoon. Of course, this was a mistake.

I don't know if you'd call it child abuse or neglect because we were, theoretically, a couple of pretty bright young guys and this was a Jewish neighborhood in 1950s Brooklyn where violent crime was almost unheard of. But leaving brothers alone together for any length of time before they reach the age of 60 or so is probably unwise.

What I thought might be fun was to toast some matzo. So I got a small piece and put it in the toaster. After a minute or so, when I figured it was done, I tried to take it out but there was no way to reach it without using a fork. So without unplugging the toaster, I put the fork in.

Suddenly, I was jerked sharply backward.

Wow, I thought, that was great!

I didn't realize that what had happened was that I had literally received a jolt of electricity, enough to convulse my body. All I knew is that I had had an incredible experience, which made my usual attempt to change my consciousness - namely, spinning - seem like a childish waste of time.

"Try it," I said to my brother. "Come on, try it!"

While he was younger, he was in this case wiser and he declined. I guess it had looked pretty frightening to see me thrown backward. And, actually, I did not repeat it. Something in my brother's look of alarm probably convinced me that this was a one-time thrill.

I have long considered myself a pretty cautious person but I guess that as a child I was relatively fearless (or monumentally stupid). Along with the Indian wrestling and toaster incidents, I once put my finger into the socket the guy at the corner hardware store used to test light bulbs. And another time I swung from our refrigerator door, jumping down only as the refrigerator began to fall forward.

Thankfully, I did wise up as I got older. Otherwise I could have wound up a candidate for one of those "Darwin awards," which commemorate those who, according to the books and website of the same name, "improve our gene pool by removing themselves from it."

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

Cruisin’

By Terry Hamburg of Baby Boomer Daily

It was a 1950’s high school coming-of-age ritual.

The crowd began gathering at 10:00AM Saturday morning in front of Schwab’s Drug Store on the northeast corner of Devon and California. Guys auditioned in cars; girls on the sidewalk.

The cruise route was a square block: west on Devon, hopefully catching the long red light at the corner of Cal and then turning right. Three to five times around and it was a day. That took an hour or two, depending on the traffic. No one was in a hurry.

Without a cool car, you looked like a nerd; not necessarily late model, but it had to be cherried-out or hip. Convertibles were ideal. Cruising by in your grandfather’s Oldsmobile or the family station wagon drew guffaws.

The male game was to entice the right girls into the car for a ride. The girls were looking for the right boys to entice them.

Around 100 cars participated. Jockeying for position was fierce. The object: approach the big corner just as the light turned red with the right song blaring on the radio: Diana, Wake Up Little Susie, Are You Sincere, et al. Try to lock eyes with the girl of your dreams and hoped she locked back.

A great ploy was to teach a neophyte how to drive. Unlike boys, who got a license on their 16th birthday, most girls waited until college. The learner had to practically sit on your lap for her instruction.

Occasionally, a group of girls would cruise, but it was to “drive” boys crazy or invite a car to follow them, usually to a Dairy Queen where the mating dance would continue.

A brief word about s-e-x. In this relatively innocent 1950's, middle-class world, there was little “consummation.” Making out (what our parents called “petting”) and feeling bare skin in places normally covered was about as hot as it got. At least for me.

My father appreciated the ritual so he let me borrow his black Impala convertible every Saturday. Best “chick magnet” I ever had.

Many years later, when I already had my chick and I wasn’t looking, I discovered an even better one: a miniature poodle. I recommended it to those on the prowl at any age.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

Put On A Happy Face

By Jackie Harrison

If you have been reading my stories, you know I don't like to write sad ones. I hope this one will not leave you sad but will give you hope and a reason for living.

When I was small, I almost died from a hemorrhage following a tonsillectomy. Later I contracted malaria from playing outside during summer evenings in Georgia.

I married at a very young age and had a daughter at the age of 22. Before her delivery, I began bleeding and was forced to stop working, destroying my plans of walking straight from work into the delivery room.

My doctor told me I had a "green cervix" and would probably be a month late. He also told me to cut out all my salt because I had suddenly gained three pounds, still short of the 15 pounds he enforced. I promptly left and bought half a pound of salted peanuts and ate them.

My husband's family arrived for the delivery on my due date. It was cold in Atlanta and the pipes had frozen. I helped open them. That evening I began having labor pains.

I have never been one to pay attention to pain or any other physical problem so the next morning, still having a few pains, I went with my mother-in-law to Sears to shop for baby things. She became alarmed since my pains became fairly regular. I told her not to worry because if I delivered at Sears, they would give me a complete baby layette. This sounded good to me since we didn't have much money as a poor, medical-resident family.

I waited until the last minute to go to the hospital. The delivery went well. The next day, I stood up from my bed and suddenly found myself standing in a pool of my own blood. The nurses panicked so I raised the foot of my bed myself and laid down until they took me to the operating room.

Instead of suturing the artery causing my bleeding, they merely clamped it. They removed the clamp the next day and sent me home.

I continued bleeding profusely at home and was re-admitted for suturing.

I became pregnant again in about a year. One day while I was working in the operating room, I looked in the mirror and saw a fine red rash over my face. I checked my body and found it covered with the same rash.

I knew immediately that I had the German measles. I refused, however, to accept it until I was seen by the doctor who authored the book on communicable diseases. I lost the baby.

Next I was pregnant with twins. I had acute poly-hydramnios. I developed a milk leg and was placed on bed rest. I had pains at about six months so I called the doctor and was admitted for one day.

I was sedated and told I was just exhausted. At home alone the next day, my membranes ruptured and the sudden loss of 40 pounds of fluid left me in shock. The twin girls lived a few hours and died.

After I returned home, I suffered such severe pain in my abdomen that I was forced to go to bed where I could hardly stand for anyone to walk across the room and jar the bed. I was taken by ambulance to the hospital and treated for an abdominal blood clot.

Back home again, I began bleeding more each day. I calmly told everyone I was bleeding too much but since I continued to go about my activities, they were not concerned. Then in the middle of one night, I turned to my husband and said, "I am dying," as I faded in and out.

The worst part of this ambulance trip was my little daughter clinging to my hand as I was hauled off again.

The next pregnancy ended with conflicting opinions by pathologists of a "missed abortion" or a “hydatidiform mole.” After this diagnosis and niine months of carrying this "thing," I was forced to send blood specimens to the cancer institute for one year.

Trying to get pregnant again, I was given a local anesthetic in the doctor's office where I went into anaphylactic shock and almost died.

I am glad I was young when these happened because they formed my value system for life: God first, family second and joy and gratitude for every minute of my life.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

Superstitions in China

By Johna Ferguson

Better to be safe than sorry; thus many Chinese still are very superstitious about many things.

Superstitions usually abound during Spring Festival, the Lunar New Year, starting Jan 23rd this year and ending with the Lantern Festival 15 days later. This is the Year of the Dragon, the Fifth sign in the Chinese zodiac.

During the festival holiday, a whole fish on the table is a must as the Chinese word for fish is a homophone of the word for surplus which means “having abundance in the new year.” But in coastal areas, the fish should never be turned over, for that act symbolizes the capsizing of a boat.

People should eat long noodles for longevity on one’s birthday. Many small gifts are exchanged at various times but one should never give a clock as the word sounds the same as “burying the dead.”

Chinese also like auspicious colors. Red is the color to bring happiness and good luck. Chinese brides always used to wear red but following foreign fashions, they now wear white. But white is worn at funerals along with white flowers given to everyone who attends and then placed on the grave.

At weddings, and many are preformed during the festival as families are home for the holiday, the bride gives those attending a mixture of jujubes, peanuts, lotus seeds and candy for the phrase zao sheng gui zi sounds like “having a son soon afterwards.” The best day to get married in 2011 was November 11, 2011, but any double number except four is okay.

Fireworks are shot off at the Lunar New Year to ward off evil spirits. The skies are lit up for hours and hours from shooting fireworks by every family and city and the noise of firecrackers is enough to almost drive one insane.

When moving, many older peasants put burning charcoal and a lump of dough in a brazier and carry it to their new home to ensure good fortune in the future.

Also, many people believe in fortune tellers. Many of these tellers have a paper drawing of the things they can predict lying on the sidewalk trying to get people to stop and have their fortunes told. And then, many believe in their horoscopes read in the daily papers.

Numbers are very involved in superstitious beliefs. Eight is the luckiest number and therefore the most wanted when one applies for a telephone number or a license plate. One business man paid $262,000 for the plate number C8888 for his BMW. The number three is also magical and in Beijing, a man paid $284,000 for the phone number, 133-3333-3333.

When we stayed at Zhou’s daughter’s apartment in Beijing in a modern high-rise Marriott Hotel, I was not surprised at their being no 13th floor for many people worldwide are afraid of that number. But I was amazed there also was no floor 4 or 14. That’s because the number four sound like the word for death.

When I visited the Forbidden City, I was surprised that I had to step up and over a board across the entrances to buildings. These were to protect the people within from ghosts which might slip under the door.

No one wants a ghost at their wedding so outside the bride’s house on that grand day all nearby sewer covers are covered with bright pink paper painted with the symbol for happiness so no ghost can slip out accidentally and cause problems.

Even my lovely magpies are auspicious. If you see or hear one on your wedding day you will be blessed with good luck and a happy marriage.

Lastly are Kitchen Gods. A paper picture of the God is hung in a prominent place in mostly old peasant’s kitchen. Each year during Chinese New Year, this God returns to heaven to report on what the family has done during the year.

The family serves sticky rice at a special dinner for the God before he goes so he can’t open his mouth and report on the family. After the meal the picture is burned and a new one hung up.

Therefore, to hedge your bets, best go to a fortune teller and follow what he says and also be sure to give the Kitchen God plenty of sticky rice. And a Happy Chinese New Year to you all.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

The Way the Cookie Crumbles

By Mickey Rogers of This, That and the Other

I didn’t like some of the food that Mom prepared for us. Perhaps the worst of the worst was the cornbread. For some unknown reason, she laced it with thick hunks of pure fat. Instead of eating the tainted cornbread, I stuffed it into my pants pocket, piece by piece.

Later, in the bathroom, I flushed the uneatable stuff down the toilet. I bet the person who cleaned the septic tank was mystified!

Not wanting to waste any morsel of food, Mom kept a “slop jar” in the refrigerator. Anything left over went into that jar so one never quite knew what he or she was eating.

Unfortunately, almost all those mysterious leftovers were liquid or mushy, so stuffing them into my pockets was out of the question.

No one, not even “Dad the Dictator,” could force me to eat both ends of a hotdog. One end was the head of the wiener, so it followed that the other end was the butt. Of course, by definition, the end that I ate was always the head. Isn’t that logical?

On the other hand, Mom’s homemade soups were excellent and her homemade bread was to die for. I loved to get a large slice of bread while it was still warm. After applying butter and gobs of jelly or peanut butter, I quickly devoured it and then begged for more.

All of Mom’s cookies were great but my favorites were the ones with the jelly filling in the center. Once I ate about fifteen of them for a snack! It’s a wonder I didn’t turn into a real tubby.

One Saturday morning, Mom made a gigantic batch of those mouth-watering cookies. After putting them into the top section of the roaster, she issued the following warning: “Stay away from these cookies! I’ll need all of them so leave them alone!”

My two sisters were there, but they weren’t warned. For some reason, Mom believed that her daughters were completely trustworthy. Her son, however, was another matter.

Dad was the proud owner and commander of the one and only automobile in the family and Mom did not drive. Therefore, during the day, while Dad was at work, we usually walked to get from point A to point B. That particular Saturday we walked to town. Back in the day, almost all the important stores were located there.

After a few hours of shopping we headed home. A little later, Mom checked her precious cookies and lo and behold, about five or six or so were missing! She didn’t accuse my sisters; she had already solved the case.

“I told you not to eat those cookies! I’m telling your dad when he gets home! Then you’ll get what’s coming to you!” she screamed at me.

I professed my innocence but to no avail. Cookies were missing, I loved those cookies and because I was a bratty little boy, I suppose, I was automatically guilty. End of case.

At about 5:30, as usual, Dad whirled into the driveway. No sooner had he walked through the door when Mom complained: “I made a batch of cookies today and I ordered him to leave them alone! He disobeyed me and ate several of them!”

Mom was really ticked off but she had a little smile on her face, no doubt anticipating the whipping that, from her point of view, I so richly deserved.

However, instead of taking off his thick leather belt, Dad sheepishly replied, “I stopped by this afternoon. No one was home but I found those cookies and helped myself.”

Poor Mom was deflated. I was going to escape a punishment that she believed I somehow inherently deserved. Moreover, she was probably shocked by the fact that I could actually tell the truth.

Since Mom wasn’t certain exactly how many cookies had been devoured by Dad, after the rest of the family left the kitchen, I helped myself to a couple of them. The way I figured it, I had earned those tasty treats; this was a case of simple justice. Never before or since have I eaten such wonderful cookies.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

The Trouble With Four-Door Cars

By Nancy Leitz

There was a very good reason I pretended to sweep my front porch every morning at 7:45AM. Interesting things happened all the time and I think you will enjoy this story of what I saw one morning while I swept up imaginary dirt.

We were living one mile from a very large air force base. There were only nine houses in our circle of homes so we all knew each other.

There was the guy on the corner who had broken the speed record in a jet from Virginia to California hitting Mach 1 for the first time. Next to him lived the pilot who was being court marshaled (I won't go into that). Then our house (Roy was busy at NASA building the helium purification system and the mach 10 and 20 wind tunnels).

On our right lived a C-130 pilot who was leaving the air force to become an FBI Agent and next to them another pilot and his family. Then a house that was owned by an air force fellow who was sent overseas so his house was for rent.

Next to him was the representative of a huge defense contractor for the air Force and then came the air force chaplain (a Protestant minister) and his family. On the corner lived a mystery man we never saw (We all thought he was a CIA agent; we never did find out).

Now that you know all the characters in the neighborhood, I will tell you the story.

One day, a real estate agent drove into our circle and with him were a "bird" colonel and his young, beautiful, trophy wife. She was a knock-out. Red hair and big blue eyes. Long shapely legs and a tight dress.

One of my friends was visiting and when she saw the redhead, she said, "Nice dress. Too bad they didn't have it in her size." I only wish I had Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler here to describe this "dame" to you. Enough said!

They went into the house that was for rent and and after awhile reappeared by the agent's car and began signing a lease using the trunk of the car as a desk. So, we had new neighbors. These two could be very interesting, we thought, and by gum, they were!

They moved in and spoke to NO ONE! But our husbands could not get enough of looking at her. They would mow the lawn all day Saturday and Sunday with no nagging in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her in her short shorts and revealing halter tops.

But, as Al Jolson was fond of saying, "They ain't seen nothing yet.” The best was yet to come. By the luck of the draw, the colonel was sent on TDY (Temporary Duty) to a base in the Azores.

He left on Tuesday, her beach chair appeared in the driveway on Wednesday and there SHE was on Thursday in her bikini (really fashion forward in 1964) lolling in her chair, catching some rays and thoroughly enjoying the attention she was attracting from the men as they left for the base in the morning.

I hesitate to tell you this but even the chaplain gave her the once-over. The guy from the corner broke the sound barrier again rushing over to the Rep's house to borrow a tool he didn't need.

The poor fellow who was being court marshaled stayed away because he was in enough trouble already. Roy couldn't get a good look at her because I was always out there sweeping (Damn!). The pilot/FBI agent was in Quantico training for the Bureau and the other neighbors were busy with their own affairs.

Early Friday morning, the beach chair appeared on the driveway again and that's when I decided I should sweep my front porch. Pretty soon she came out in her teeny weeny bikini and so did the big time rep for the defense contractor and his WIFE!

They came out of their front door and he kissed the little woman goodbye and started walking down his driveway toward the street where his car was parked. The bathing beauty turned toward him to give him a better view but he was busy pretending (for his wife's sake) that he wasn't the least bit interested in her.

I could see his head looking straight ahead but his eyes were shifted as far into the corner as they could get looking at the woman reclining in the beach chair.

He approached his car, all the time looking at her out of the corner of his eye. He opened the door and got in, slammed the door shut and reached for the steering wheel. To his amazement it wasn't there! Where was it? Where the heck was the steering wheel?

You could see the puzzlement in his eyes and then the astonishment on his face as he slowly realized that he had gotten into the BACK SEAT!

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

Fishing on the Salton Sea

By Marcy Belson

We bought a new gold-colored car with a rear engine. It was the first new car for us. It had fake leather seats and it snaked down the road like an out of control toy. I remember driving on the freeway, the gas pedal would stick and I would work my shoe under the pedal and pull it up. I never considered getting it fixed.

Shortly thereafter, my father gave us his old wooden fishing boat.

The Salton Sea was about 40 miles away and the Corvina fishing was good. In fact, the fishing was so good our freezer was full. I asked my husband to bury the fish as fertilizer under the backyard fruit trees.

The next morning, I looked out the window, every cat in the neighborhood was in our backyard. He had buried the fish in rows, with their tails sticking out of the ground. He thought it was a great joke.

On Memorial Day, we hooked that big boat up to the little, gold-colored car and away we went. We caught a few fish but it was very warm and about noon, we gave it up and headed into the ramp area.

My husband gave me instructions to back the car down the ramp until the trailer was submerged.  He would then gun the boat and get it in position on the trailer.  At that point, I was to wait for his signal of "Hit it!" I would then hit the gas and pull the trailer and boat out of the water.

He did a good job of moving the boat into place and he yelled "Hit it!" So I did.  Except for one error, this would have been a simple maneuver.

Instead of the boat and trailer coming out of the water, I had the gear in reverse and backed my little car with the rear motor into the salty water. By the time I could get out of the car, the water was seeping into the back seat floor board area.

Gordon jumped out of the boat and asked the nearest men where the closest tow vehicle might be. Well, those men were enjoying their fishing day, their cold beer on a hot day and now they were enjoying the spectacle of a tiny, gold-colored car, slowing sinking, attached to a big boat and trailer.

They were laughing so hard, they couldn't tell us where we could find some help.

Finally, someone attached a rope to the car and pulled it out with a big truck. The motor was completely submerged. That was the end of my little, gold-colored car. We sold the boat.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

My Purpose in Life

By Lyn Burnstine

As I wrote my annual summary of my life to send to my friends, I realized there was a very special thread to this past year and the awareness that aging brings. I tried to express it in this letter.

"Each year I try to find a theme to the year’s events, a connecting thread,for my holiday letter as in, 'The year of the — .' Well, I think this year it found itself as I began to think about a year filled with random joys and sorrows, worries and pain, but some fun and golden days.

“I’m going to skip most of the usual family rundown. My family has become so huge most of you don’t even know who they are by name and if I brag about one, I have to brag about all 20 of them. Let’s just say the number stayed stable and I got to see all the five great-grands at least once.

“And I’d just as soon forget the falls, injuries to hands and knee, trips to the ER and one hospitalization for gastroenteritis. The point is, I survived and managed to have many stellar times in between.

“All you really need to know about the year is that I made a difficult decision not to uproot myself and move to Massachusetts, but to stay here near my dear old (and new) friends, the Hudson River, the Walkway Over the Hudson, my beloved writing groups, my amazing aide, my wonderful cooking and shopping assistant, and all my medical people and resources five minutes up the road.

“Daughter and her new husband's move put them much nearer so it is easier to get to each other now. The worst of the problems in my building ended with the eviction of a couple of tenants. Now again I love living here with its gorgeous park-like grounds for walking and photo-taking, so when I realized I was just too tired and decrepit to face a move and a new life, I was able to accept it.

“Which brings me to the theme of the year. As you know, I blog on the Elderstorytelling site and on PNN as well as share my photos on Facebook. From the overwhelming responses I have gotten, especially from younger women, it has begun to dawn on me that there is a need for and a shortage of elders as role models for keepin’ on keepin’ on – leading active, meaningful lives, in spite of pain and disability.

“I hear that from many people, younger ones especially, who tell me I am an inspiration and a mentor to them (and believe me, my circle of friends and fellow bloggers includes several other candidates for stardom in this field – I’m not alone).

“This year I am being filmed and taped as part of a documentary on people in their 70's and 80's dealing positively and creatively with aging. So my feeling of obligation to be that person has increased bringing a recent epiphany: This IS my purpose in life in this home stretch!

“And so there is the title for 2011's newsletter: The Year That I Found My New and Final Purpose in Life. I certainly had no problem knowing what my purpose was when raising my three children and helping raise nephews and a grandson – there was never a question.

“Nor when I was singing for my supper for 45 years, while still putting supper on my family's table every night; nor when I was churning out my three books. But the last few years I have been feeling a bit purposeless, unable to just relax and enjoy playing with my photography, writing, and reading. All my life I have felt I should be accomplishing something all the time, “devils nippng at my heels.” My goal is to banish those little buggers, yet still fulfill my newly-realized purpose.

“So, that, my dear friends, is where I am at the beginning of 2012, eagerly looking toward another year of living, loving, doing and just being. I wish for you a glowing year with good health, good appetites, and good health coverage!"

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

Gone Fishin'

By Don (Greywolf) Ford

(For my sweet daughter and fishing buddy)

"Dad, are we going fishing today?" My daughter had been anticipating this for some time. She began by relating to me that she could not sleep the night before. She woke up at 5AM, 6AM, 6:30AM, and here we were talking at 7AM.

"Yes, honey. I promised you if it weren't raining that we would hit the water."

"Do you want me to get dressed right now?" She was more than excited.

"Sure babe, go ahead. Don't wear your good shoes." For the last three years, I had taken my girl fishing. Now at 11, she still wants to go, but will still not chance putting the worm on the hook.

When we arrived at Green Lakes State Park, the questions began. "Are we too early for the fish? This question followed on the heels of, "Why do they take so long to bite?"

"We are here to learn first how to fish and to also learn to be patient. So start with talking to me in a whisper, since they can hear us. Unless they are starving, they will eat when they feel like it."

"Dad, does the worm feel it when it goes on the hook? Does it hurt them?"

"You notice how careful I am, and I don't do it too fast. Maybe if I were too quick and rough it might hurt." I was hoping the questions wouldn't get any harder to answer.

"Dad, that butterfly keeps circling you over and over. Do you know what that means?

"No, honey, but I bet you are going to tell me, aren't you?”

"That's right, I am. It means you are a gentle person. That's what my teacher told us in science class."

Later I noticed the butterfly let me pick it up with my fingers. Shortly after this, a dragonfly landed on my shoulder and my daughter said, "Hey, he likes you too, Dad." But she remembers my famous dragonfly story that I sold to a magazine, where a lone dragonfly saved me from hoards of black-flies.

During today's little adventure, we both caught a fish. This year was different; this year my fish and her fish were the same size. Other years she always caught the biggest fish. That of course remains our little secret, now doesn't it.

Today we only fished for a little over an hour and then headed home. By the time we got back, Mom was waiting to hear the tall tales. "Mom, guess what? Dad exaggerated today. He said the fish we saw in the water was as big as a house."

"Show me how big it was." Then my daughter proceeded to stretch her hands as far apart as she could. "Wow, it sounds like your dad wasn't too far off.”

End Note: There are moments in our lives that we hold on to dearly. This will always be one of those times, along with countless others.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

What Do You Do When You Find You're Losing It?

From William Weatherstone of The Diesel Gypsy

[EDITOR'S NOTE: Some time ago, a friend of The Elder Storytelling Place's own William Weatherstone sent him this article. His friend's name is Colin McKim and he was the Orillia, Ontario, Canada area writer for Huronia Sunday. Bill wanted to share the column with ESP readers and was given permission to print it here.]

As one grows older, the body is not the only thing that becomes incontinent.

I’m losing it.

I’ve always been a trifle absent minded.

But lately it’s been getting ridiculous.

Last week, I was heading down Peter Street and saw a police car coming the other way. Automatically, my right hand jerked up to check if my seat belt was angled across my chest. It wasn’t.

Looking down to grab for the belt, I realized I was on the sidewalk - but not in a car. I was walking. Not a good sign.

Later that day, I discovered a green dot the size of a dime at the base of my left thumb. I was at a loss to explain its origin. For all I knew it was a miniature crop circle. Tiny aliens might at this moment be climbing up my body toward my head, looking for signs of intelligent life.

They better hurry. I’m losing it fast.

Yesterday, I marched purposely from the kitchen, through the dining room and living room into the front hall where I pulled open a drawer full of toilet paper, light bulbs, scraps of wallpaper and other odds and ends. I stared into the drawer without the slightest idea what I was looking for. I tried a few other drawers without feeling any wiser.

All I knew was that I was in the general area of something that I wanted. But what?

I was heading back to the kitchen before I realized it was a newspaper tucked in my coat in the front hall closet I was after. Since I never hang my coat in a drawer (at least not yet), I can’t explain how I got off course and went down what I can only describe as a mental dead end.

Maybe those miniscule aliens are controlling my thoughts, compelling me to open drawers to satisfy their extraterrestrial curiosity.

Either that or -

I’m losing it.

And I’m not the only one.

My editor lost his identity for a month. As he explains it, he walked up to a bank machine, went to punch in the four-digit personal identification number he’s been using for years and drew a complete blank. The number had been withdrawn from his memory bank without his knowledge.

He decided to walk away from the machine, confident the number would come back to him soon enough. It didn’t.

He searched his brain in vain, trying to find the phantom digits. No luck. So, like a someone in a witness protection program, he was forced to assume a new digital identity.

Then a month later, he was in the car when the lost number unexpectedly hit him like a banded bird flying into the windshield. Now with two identities, he isn’t sure who he is.

Driving home a few nights ago, he became completely disoriented at an intersection he’s driven through hundreds of times. The light turned green and for a second, he didn’t know whether to turn or go straight.

As one grows older the body is not the only thing that becomes incontinent.

These days I find I can’t hold a phone number in my mind long enough to get it punched in. Somewhere between my eyes and my index finger I lose it, or part of it, which amounts to the same thing.

And then there’s the mystery novel on the bedside table. Now that I am losing it, I understand why they call them mysteries.

Opening the book where the book marker says I should, I can’t remember where I stopped reading the night before. Sometimes I have to backtrack for pages to find a familiar character or passage. Sometimes I even check the title to make sure I haven’t picked up the wrong book.

It’s the same thing with this column. I had the perfect idea for an ending that would have brought the whole thing full circle. But I forgot what it was.

Like I said, I’m losing it.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]